


Posh's World

by AnathemaAuthoress



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Canon Compliant (Sorta), Character building, Citadel of Ricks, Drama, Gen, M/M, Master/Pet, Original Character(s), evil morty - Freeform, fashion - Freeform, soulbound
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-04-03 17:16:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21487219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnathemaAuthoress/pseuds/AnathemaAuthoress
Summary: Posh Morty is the Citadel's lead Morty fashion designer, but with the fall of Garment Rick, his future in fashion looks uncertain. As he struggles to deal with the pitfalls of demanding Ricks, rebellious Mortys, and his own mortality, he takes a look back on how he got to this point.***What it says on the tin. All the relevant characters in this story (for the most part) will be my (and Devilish Daddy's) original character versions of Rick and Morty as they live out their lives on the Citadel.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Posh's World

The clack of heels was like bullets against the polished wood paneling of the back stage. Rows of Morty models flinched as their boss marched past them with the fury of a hurricane whipping up in the tails of his boa. 

The bright colors of the fashions lining racks, the hustle of stage hands, and the bright, cheery overhead lights juxtapositioned poorly with the sudden ominous atmosphere that overtook the room. A wave of whispers rose up under the rabble of normal pre-show communication. 

Posh Morty, the lead designer, head manager, and co-owner of Hollow Heart Designs, was marching on the precipice of a warpath. Fury was woven into his browline like the permanent etchings on a particularly pissed off statue. 

One could easily pick out Posh’s voice in a crowd. It lived in a constant state of mature aggravation, slightly deeper and more deadpan than the nasally whinge of his doppelgängers. This was true even when the sound was erupting from his throat in a patience-whittled burst, just like the one he released then and there. “Where! Is! Mod!?”

He had paced the line three times, convinced himself he’d overlooked his star in a flurry of stress, but it wasn’t to be. “Five minutes until walk, and the main attraction of my line has been spirited away by the glorified mannequin wearing it,” Posh seethed beneath his breath. “Again!”

He stopped in his tracks, just behind the satin curtain that draped from the overhang thirty feet up. He peered around the edge to see the faces of all the top Ricks in the industry–or at least those that hadn’t gone missing. They spoke with smug expressions, predetermined judgement for a Morty designer. He was already a joke to them, no better than a costume maker for dogs. It didn’t matter that he was one of the best sellers in the Garment District. Of course, that had been under Garment District Rick’s management and that man hadn’t shown up for a consolidation meeting in weeks. That meant Posh was up for unofficial revaluation. He didn’t need this shit today.

He pulled back and eyed the Mortys at the front of the line, each dressed immaculately, but doing the clothes no favors with nervous hunches and darting eyes. Posh all but spat on them as he hissed, “Have you seen him?”

A model in blue spats and a matching bowler spoke up. Posh still regretted that outfit, so instantly didn’t like him. The Morty’s stammers didn’t help. “W-well, uhm, w-we...you see h-he–”

Posh’s eyes narrowed, the color of chilled steel worked like a knife to cut through prattle. 

“No,” another Morty, this one in a silver jumper–much more chic, jumped in. “He left right after they dressed him. W-we haven’t seen him since.”

Posh scoffed and the models recoiled, as if afraid he’d strike them, but he turned on his heels and marched into an almost empty corner near the catering station. He flipped open a rhinestone-bedazzled phone and hit speed-dial two. The phone rang once, twice. He hung up, tried again.

When he didn’t get an instant reply he sent a text. “If you’re late, I will personally re-break both your legs and wear them over my legs so my damn shoes will get justice!” Posh growled out the words as he typed them out in all caps. He hit send and then smashed in speed-dial one.

The phone rang once, no foolishness required, before the familiar gravel of a Rick’s voice filled the line. “Yo, I’m busy. What’s up, babe?”

“Don’t fucking  _ ‘babe’ _ me! Where is my model?” Posh had the phone near his head, but not against it as he shouted into the receiver.

“Jesus christ. Why the hell would I know? He’s your dog, we’ve talked about this Mort–”

“Don’t you dare,” Posh hissed. “Don’t. I am in no mood. This is the first show of the season. It is  _ everything.  _ If he doesn’t show up right now I’m going to make him into nothing.”

He could hear a clear and all-suffering sigh over the phone and then a swirling red portal appeared before the designer. Devilish Rick slid through. He wasn’t in his usual garb, but instead in the drab black suit he wore for business. At least, Posh found the suit rather drab, having almost everything to do with it being one of very few things in the Rick’s closet that Posh hadn’t made himself.

“Wh-what’s going on, babe? You know I gotta work. He’s probably just wandered off to rile you up. You really going to give him what he wants?” Despite his slightly annoyed tone, Devilish placed a hand on Posh’s slim shoulder. The silky Ricky-mammoth fur of the boa he wore tickled Devilish’s knuckles, but under his palm he could feel tension pulling the smaller man’s shoulders taught. “I ke-keep telling you he’s a little shit. You want me to smite him? I can smite him.”

Posh snapped his phone closed and put it back in his pocket. Then he ran both hands up and down his face. Normally he’d be worried about stimulating wrinkles, but he was too furious to care. “No,” he replied tersely. “I just want him here. Where he is supposed to be.” He slid his hands up his cheeks and into the brown strands of his hair. He wore it longer than most Mortys, just to his shoulders in a stylish bob. He had liked the way the cut looked on models in the first magazine he’d ever seen and kept his own hair that way to keep a little of that beauty with him. Usually he obsessed over keeping it perfect, but presently he was working it into every direction, pushing and pulling the strands until they stuck out everywhere like sticks of hay tossed haphazardly in a barrel. “Why is everything you oversee so faulty?” he spat suddenly. “You’re like the fucking Ikea of Ricks! Why can’t shit just go where it’s supposed to go? Your pieces are-are all over the place! Shit!”

All pretense of relaxing his Morty fell away with Devilish’s hand. “Oh, h-here we fucking go! It’s my fault? Who-who, you know, who wanted him in the first place? I remember wanting to leave but a certain little–a little asshole  _ begged  _ me to–”

“Begged?” Posh laughed, high and manic. Past the still-swirling red portal he could see his models flinching again, recoiling from his anger from half a room away. He didn’t care, he wanted them to see him stand up to his Rick. It was probably good for their development–or some shit. “Oh, I begged? Tell me, tell me about how I begged,  _ Rick. _ ” he all but spat the name.

Devilish drew in an annoyed, almost appalled breath. “Listen here you, little shit–”

Suddenly Posh reached up and grabbed Devlish by his necktie. He yanked hard, simultaneously pulled the bastard down to eye-level and tugged his tie tight enough to choke. “What’s that?” Posh growled.

Their faces were inches apart and Devilish’s black slacks began to immodestly tent. His sneer melted into a sadistic smirk. “I said,” he grunted around the swell of his throat about the constraining fabric strangling it, “you’re a little shit.”

Posh bared his teeth, and parted his lips to respond, but whatever he planned to say fell back down his throat at the sound of another voice.

“You two gonna fuck before the show? Again?” Across the back of the stage, near the entryway, stood Indebted Model Morty–Mod for short–slurping on a chocolate chip frappe he’d acquisitioned from the local McSanchez’s. He was still wearing the avant garde mash of color and fabric Posh had dressed him in and with the large collar and lattice-work tumbling from his top, he looked like some sort of bird. A bored bird, with plumage more radiant and attractive than his sour expression should have permitted. He was standing with one hand on his hip, regarding his masters with only mild interest.

Posh released Devilish and the Rick gagged from the sudden shift in oxygen flow. Dangerous heels snapped along the tile once more as Posh rushed across the room to snatch the frappe from his model’s hands.

“H-hey!” Mod cried and reached helplessly for the drink, but Posh sidestepped out of the way to avoid letting the other Morty get his hands on it.

“Hey? Hey yourself! Do have any idea how pissed I am?” Posh growled. “And what are you doing with  _ this _ in costume?” Posh’s repulsion was clear in his tone and the way he clasped the condensation-soaked plastic frappe cup between two fingers. 

Mod sighed and rolled his eyes. His arm went limp to suggest he no longer cared enough to protest. “I didn’t get anything on it, did I?”

Posh’s eyes darted back and forth as if to get confirmation of this. When he found no undue stains or foreign moisture, he tossed the half-finished drink onto a nearby table, wiped his hands on his leather pants, and pointed toward the line. Or where the line was supposed to be. The show had already started.

Posh nearly choked and his eyes bulged from their usual half-lidded state and for just a moment he looked like any other startled Morty. But there was still plenty of time. It had only just begun. “Fuckin’ go,” he seethed.

Mod snickered, amused by this rise, and clip-clopped lazily to his place at the back of the few remaining Mortys in line.

“Having kids is great, huh?” Devilish whispered against his charge’s ear. Posh didn’t budge, he knew a start was what the demon was looking for. 

“You’re still here?”

“Wanted to make sure it’d all turn out.”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

Devilish’s smile fell. “Yeah, yeah. I got more–you know–I got shit to do.” Then he turned and slipped back through the ring of fire whence he’d come.

Posh didn’t let his composure slip again. He stood up straight, stroked his hair back into place, called for make-up, and pinned on his microphone. When the last model walked, so did he.

He trotted out on the stage, wore a smile for the first time the entire day. He stopped at the center, allowed the models to prance around him, and opened his arms wide for the cheers of the audience. They loved his work. They always fucking did.

“Hello, baby-dolls. Are our Hollow Hearts feeling full tonight?” Flamboyancy overtook his deep tone.

Resounding cheers. Posh loyally led into his spiel about micro-fibers and the conservation of local Ricksources. Gave the usual public relations binge about Citadel workers being the heart of Hollow Heart and yickity-yackity, Rickety-wackity. He had the whole performance memorized. He’d regeritated enough versions of it over the past few months. As his industry picked up, so did the necessity of a powerful figurehead. Posh could handle it.

The show concluded and the real work started. Posh retreated backstage to congratulate his boys for not completely fucking up, then exchanged his boa for his signature coat and made his way to the cocktails in the party room.

The Ricks he’d come to see were already gathered together like a gaggle of teenage girls, terrified to drift outside of their clique.  _ Good, fish in a barrel. _ Posh fluffed the blue collar of his coat and strutted over.

“Why, if it isn’t the B&Y! Pleasure to see you here, gentlemen,” Posh said cheerfully as he infiltrated the semi-circle of Ricks. Present were the four head designers of the Citadel’s quadrant-specific companies. They ran their own shit, but under the umbrella of the Blue and Yellow Association. Posh told Devilish all this meant to him was that codependent betas needed to depend on each other, but in reality he knew without their approval he wouldn’t be permitted to keep designing. 

“Oh, well if it isn’t the little Morty designer,” Textile Rick sneered. He made a big show of looking Posh up and down with a bored expression plastered on his face. Textile looked much like a normal Rick, but only wore elaborate suits. That day he was sporting a woven brown three-piece with a pure white undershirt and a bright red tie and  _ damn it _ Posh hated that he looked so snappy. 

“You certainly made a big splash,” Seamster Rick chimed in. He didn’t have any special anything about him. Just a plain old Rick in plain old Rick clothes and the very sight of him clawed at Posh’s very nature and made a mockery of it. At least he was more approachable.

BigWig Rick, who liked to wear winged eye-liner and whose name said everything else about him, lurched forward to shake Posh’s hand, and the Morty feared the towering white-powdered wig would come crashing down on him. “Your looks are tree-tr-tres magnifique! I-I don’t think I’ve seen such innovation in all my–you know–in a long time. I can see why Garment District Rick took such a-a-a liking to you, dear.”

“Shame Garment seems to have _retired,_” R drawled. R, much like some cheap Prince knock-off, refused to answer to anything but that letter alone. If one uttered his full name, they died to him and held no further hope of interacting. He liked shapeless turtlenecks, wore his blue-gray hair greased back, and fancied make-up in the affinity of _A Clockwork Orange_. 

Posh positively tingled with the repression it took to keep from asking,  _ “Oh? Why is that? Did you bludgeon him?”  _ He scarcely managed to refrain. Instead he said, “Pleasure to meet you all in person. I’ve been eager to discuss the resigning of the trade documents. I want to assure you that the Garment District on the eastside still maintains our values and commitment to quality. With or without Rick.”

“B&Y has already decided that once the former documents expire, new ones will need to be drawn. We’ve, you know, we’ve realized it’s not in our best interest to continue supporting  _ small business,”  _ R said, voice heavy with feigned pity.

Posh’s lips parted to protest, but his words took a moment to catch up. “But if you isolate trade to the association you’ll be in violation of Citadel monopoly law,” he said, and barely managed to contain his growl.

“What law?” Textile Rick asked, shit-eater grin wide and overbearing.

“H-haven’t you heard, daaar–” BigWig had to stop mid-sentence to unleash an unruly wine belch. “Darling? The new président abolished that law at the last senate meeting.”

Posh’s head reeled. That didn’t seem right at all, but the looks the Ricks were giving him–both pity and smugness–assured him the words were true.  _ Fuck. _ “Well, surely you’ll consider Hollow Heart Designs’ application to B&Y then.”

BigWig’s grin fell and he looked suddenly flustered. “W-well…”

“Listen. Listen here,  _ Morty. _ Your designs are cute, but let’s be level here. You design primarily for Mortys. A yellow shirt and a collar is distinctive enough. Haha! Am I right?” said Textile, with entirely too much pleasure lacing his cruel sentiments.

BigWig looked away in shame, but the other two laughed. R with equal malice, Seamster with the slow follower confusion of someone that had missed the joke. He was too preoccupied with a cup of shrimp, as if Posh’s entire existence was just a sideshow to the main attraction of some nobody-Rick’s life. 

Heat started to rise up in Morty’s face and chest and his fingers locked into the hem of his coat to keep from lunging forward. “So. You don’t think you need me. Do you all feel this way?”

“It’s nothing personal, kid. J-just business you know,” Textile laughed when none of the others replied.

“W-well, when you put it like that, Rick. I mean geez, I guess– _ fuck off with that.”  _ Posh seethed through his teeth in punctuation to his sentence.

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?” R chimed in suddenly.

“I said, fuck off with that. I get it. Mortys are an accessory to you. Fine. Let’s talk toys. Outfits for Mortys account for 73% of all sales in all quads combined. My company alone generates a hefty percent of that. So imagine with me, B&Y becomes solely responsible for Morty styles. How do you, ya know, how the hell do you intend to keep up with demand? You gonna sell oversized tweed suits and labcoats to Ricks looking to pretty up their pets? How do you figure that’ll go down? You need a Morty’s sensibilities here. You want to cut the chaff? Do it. But don’t cut the wheat.” Posh spoke matter-of-factly even when Textile began to leer at him. “Oh, and I also design for Ricks. Maybe you should check out my line. Looks like you could use the help,” Posh added with a shit-eater grin of his own.

Textile looked ready to throw down when the others ushered him into a huddle. They tried to whisper, but Posh was not deaf, stupid, or respectful enough to honor their privacy.

“He makes a good point. It couldn’t hurt,” BigWig said, amusement clearly lined his tone.

“It’s billy, I mean, bull-donkey nonsense. The four of us can manage the clothing in the Citadel without help from  _ his sort,”  _ Seamster said idly as he wiped some cocktail sauce off his thumb and onto his shirt. 

“We can’t all rely on your compelling sense of style,” BigWig chuckled as he eyed Seamster pointedly.

“B-bullshit, you know the classic look is a best seller!” Seamster hissed, indignant. “B-but, you know, whatever you dumbasses want to do, I’ll do.”

“He’s a smart-mouthed little shit,” R whinged. “But he can style. And he seems to understand supply and demand at least. And public speaking. He could be a problem if we  _ don’t _ let him in.”

Textile growled by way of reply and broke away from the huddle suddenly. He stepped up close to Posh, nearly pressed their chests together. He glared down his nose and Posh tilted his head up and glared right back.

“We’ll discuss it,” Textile said at last.

Posh fluttered his lashes. “Oh, gee, thanks, Rick.” Knowing that was the best he was going to get, he turned and walked away. He smiled and waved at his adoring public and the rich Ricks that would be bidding during the silent auction.

It wasn’t until he was outside that he finally let the smile fall.

The building was a big, single-story, brick-laid place. It was a nice venue, but the outside looked simple, like the kind of building a modest church might call home. Though the inside was all dark curtains, spotlights, and shadow appeal, outside the sun was high and reflected leisurely off the concrete ground. All manner of ships filled the parking lot ahead and the ground against the building was scattered with broken liquor bottles and the odd cigarette butt. 

While the inside was air-conditioned, the outside was immediately too hot. Posh shrugged off his coat and carefully laid it on the cleanest part of the ground he could find. He released a long-held sigh and pressed his back to the bricks. He could feel the grainy texture digging into his leather crop top and the bare skin of his lower torso. His bob tickled his shoulders as he tilted his head back and gazed up at the gutters of the building. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tin of mints. 

With trembling fingers he fished several out of the can and tossed them in his mouth. His tongue twirled them about, stimulated the minty flavor to cover his palate and overwhelm his senses, all the while wishing it was something stronger, something to take the quivering out of his nerves.

“Fuck. F-fuck,” his voice cracked and tears glistened unshed from his gray-blue eyes. 

It was possible he had pushed the matter too far and he feared he’d just undone any chance he had of continuing his work. Leaving the Citadel was out of the question, Devilish would never allow it. His business was here, so Posh’s had to be too. 

Thin shoulders shook and dry sobs caused the top of his scalp to tingle. No sounds left his mouth but the slight swishing of saliva as his tongue probed the mints uselessly for comfort.

He couldn’t risk losing everything he’d built. The very idea of a bunch of Ricks undoing his efforts for some petty pursuit of greed was nauseating. He didn’t have time to start his life over. Not again.

He remembered the words Devilish had spoken the day they’d met. They surrounded him like his own skin, snug, secure, and inescapable. “ _ Your soul is mine, so let’s make the best of your time before I claim it for good.”  _

Posh harshly swallowed the mints and the knot forming in his throat and released an animalistic growl. He wasn’t going out without a fight! It just wasn’t his style. 

**Author's Note:**

> Heeey! Thanks for checking out Posh's story. He's probably the closest thing I've ever done to a persona for a fandom, so he's very close to my heart. I can't wait to dig into his backstory a little in the next chapter.
> 
> If you're interested in seeing some art of him and Devilish, please check out my hubby's pics of them here: https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/199131 
> 
> and here: https://twitter.com/daddydevilish/status/1118212529736568833?s=21&fbclid=IwAR0au2znbivh_-AiEKiTNoUjWNU1BlaCmdGJjDCyfdLkPWDiP0XqEfS-cXk
> 
> Please let me know what you thought! <3


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